


Back In Your Head

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Substance Addiction, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey had always known that he and Frank would be friends. No, that's not quite right – assumed, that's closer, he'd always <i>assumed</i> they'd be friends. It was logical, obvious; why wouldn't they be? But people grow up wrong and hold on when they aren't supposed to, and in the space of a heartbeat it's out of Mikey's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back In Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [s0ckpupp3t](http://s0ckpupp3t.livejournal.com) for talking through this with me ♥

_"Then I loved you with the usual soft lust of October that says 'yes' to the coming winter..."_  
– Anne Stevenson, _Himalayan Balsam._

    
    
   
Mikey had always known that he and Frank would be friends. No, that wasn't quite right – assumed, that was closer, he'd always _assumed_ they'd be friends. It was logical, obvious; why wouldn't they be? They looked like they'd been designed and built and painted for it, not to be _together_ , necessarily, but just to _be_ together. Like both sides of a liberty dollar – perfect.  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _August, 1986_**

   
Mikey lies back in the dry, yellow-brown grass, fidgeting as it scratches at the fading sunburn on the back of his neck. He squints up a little at the sky. It's that strange, suspended day-night time – _dusk_ , it's called, Gerard had told him that last week; the word feels slippery and blocky and odd between his gappy teeth. Above him are streaks of fiery orange and salmon pink, and the sun hangs low and rich and golden in the sky, casting strange, slender shadows.  
   
"Mikey?" asks a voice next to him. Mikey turns his head to see Frank sprawled out next to him, propped up on his elbow and peering intently at him with eyes like coins.  
   
"Yeah?"  
   
"What were you thinking?"  
   
Mikey shifts again, wishing they'd brought a blanket and picking absently at the scab on his knee. He doesn't say anything and Frank doesn't push him for it. Frank isn't like the noisy kids who'd been in his kindergarten class last year. They'd been – painful to look at, to be around, almost. Too loud, too much for him. Their shrieks had wormed their way into his ears even when he tried to block them out with his hands and the stinging colours of their clothes had hurt his eyes. He hadn't liked them. When he hadn't wanted to play, they'd _made_ him play, and he'd _hated_ that. Then there had been that time when they'd pushed him into the middle of their circle, all shouting, dragging him headlong into a game he didn't know the rules to, and then he hadn't been able to breathe and it had been the scariest thing he'd experienced to date in his short life. Ah-smah, the nice nurse had said, and he hadn't known what it meant, but stern words had been had and no one tried to play with Mikey at all after that.  
   
Not that he'd minded. By then, he'd had Frank. Frank _never_ tried to make him play when he didn't want to.  
   
Mikey likes Frank.  
   
Mikey smiles at Frank, because he wants to make sure Frank _knows_ Mikey likes him. Mikey thinks he knows, but he wants to do it anyway. That's what friends _do_ , real friends, and Frank is his friend. Frank smiles back, a pale crescent in the fading light.  
   
"Fireflies," says Frank wistfully, his eyes wandering to the little spots of light gathering at the other end of the long yard, near the little pond and just visible from their spot by the house's back door. "We could try 'n catch some?" he suggests, his eyes glinting hopefully. "If we get a, a jar and that old fishing net in the broom closet, we could – ? It'd look _so_ cool, Mikey. Please?"  
   
He looks sort of pleading, which makes Mikey want desperately to say yes, but he shakes his head. He might not know the fancy name for it, but his chest has been feeling weird and tight all day, and being all of five years and eleven months old doesn't make him an idiot. He knows what will happen if he goes chasing bugs today; white walls and that sharp, nasty smell and his family crowded around him with taut, worried faces. "I shouldn't," he says, and Frank doesn't argue, but his face falls minutely.  
   
"We could climb the tree, though?" says Mikey quickly. He doesn't like it when Frank looks like that, like he's been stuffed in someone's pocket, been forgotten about and come out all crumpled up. Frank lights up, and the knot in Mikey's chest loosens slightly.  
   
   
   
Mikey doesn't know what type of tree it is, only that it's _perfect_ for climbing. It's huge – Mikey dreams sometimes about its roots spreading out for miles and miles under the ground; Gerard's drawn pictures – with a broad, majestic spread of branches that are strong enough to sit on but not too thick for small hands to get a good grip around. Frank scrambles up first, stronger and more compact than Mikey, all with his long limbs and delicate, awkward grace. When Mikey pulls himself up to the branch Frank is dangling his legs off, Mikey is already pink-faced, a warning tension digging its fingers into his chest. He sits down carefully next to Frank, reassuring him with another little, uneven smile that he's ok.  
   
This isn't the first summer evening they've spent in this tree, whispering and giggling and spilling small, bright secrets into the warm air. This – _Frank_ – makes Mikey so happy, reminds him that there's _someone_ who will like him whatever he does without him even having to try.  
   
"Mikes? Dinner!" A voice from the direction of the house catches a slight breath of wind, and Mikey sits up slightly. It's Gerard. Beside him, Frank seems to fade a little.  
   
"Coming!" Mikey calls back with a little sigh of resignation, and starts down the tree again.  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _February, 1987_**

  
Mikey glances around, wide-eyed and wide awake, pulling the covers up around his chin. He could have _sworn_ he'd heard a noise. He rolls out of bed, pads quietly over to his window and peers out, going by the horror-movie rule of thumb that the monsters are always less scary when you've had a proper look at them. His six-year-old brain fills in the gap with zombies, vampires, axe-murderers, giant spiders, and his heart starts to thud against his ribcage.  
   
"Psst! Can I come in?"  
   
Mikey jumps backwards, his little heart really hammering now and his chest cramping threateningly. But it's _Frank_ , grinning at him through the window, pink-cheeked and hopeful. Mikey rushes to open it, clumsy fingers fumbling with the latch.  
   
"How did you get up here?" he whispers, awed. His room is on the _second floor_. Frank somehow manages to shrug modestly as he clambers gracelessly through the window, eyes alight.  
   
"I just climbed," he says. "It's easy. I'll show you sometime." But his smile is brighter than the frosted moon outside, and Mikey finds himself smiling back. Mikey's spent countless afternoons in the yard with Frank, but he doesn't think Frank's ever actually been inside the house before. The fact that he's here _now_ makes Mikey want to smile all over again. But, then –  
   
"You're cold," says Mikey, frowning as he pulls the window closed behind Frank. Frank's shivering and Mikey can feel the chill and the crisp scent of winter clinging to him. Frank looks reluctant to admit it, but Mikey can hear his teeth chattering.  
   
"I'm not," retorts Frank, but he doesn't sound very convincing.  
   
"Ok." Mikey shrugs, unperturbed. "You're not. If you're not cold you can sit on the floor all night."  
   
"Fine," says Frank, slightly petulantly, and Mikey gets back into bed.  
   
Frank sits down on the floor with his legs folded up and his arms wrapped around his knees, making himself as small as possible.  
   
He lasts seven and a half minutes before he gives up and crawls in next to Mikey, pressed up against his side for warmth, every breath ruffling his friend's sandy hair a little.  
   
Mikey has never slept so well in his life.  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _April, 1990_**

  
"Frank?"  
   
"Yeah?"  
   
Mikey tugs restlessly at the grass under his fingers. "Do you – do you think I'm weird?"  
   
"What?" Frank sits up. He has a leaf in his hair, and it's all sticking up where he's been running his hands through it as they'd lain staring up at the sky. Mikey decides not to mention it. " _Why?_ "  
   
Mikey shrugs awkwardly, hating how he's even socially incompetent around _Frank_ ; that's ridiculous, god. "Everyone else thinks so."  
   
Frank frowns, like he genuinely doesn't get it. "But... you're not. Why do they think you are?"  
   
"They say it isn't normal that I don't have any friends."  
   
"You've got _me_ ," Frank points out, pouting.  
   
"They say I talk to myself."  
   
"You don't."  
   
"How d'you know?"  
   
"Because _I've_ never seen you do it, so you obviously don't. See? 'Sides, how many friends do they think you need anyway?"  
   
Mikey has to agree. _He's_ never felt like Frank isn't enough. "I don't _know_ ," he says unhappily. "It's just, you know. My parents. I think they're kind of worried."  
   
"They shouldn't be. You're _fine_ ," says Frank fiercely, and the dead weight of the worry begins to evaporate from Mikey's limbs.  
   
"Yeah," he says. He can't believe he'd been so worried; he should have known Frank would make it better. He feels feather-light; golden. He smiles. "I know."  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _September, 1992_**

  
"Something's wrong."  
   
It's a statement, not a question. Mikey sits against the tree in the backyard, picking anxiously at the loose thread on his jeans. He shakes his head minutely. Frank stands over him, lips pressed together and eyebrows drawn into a worried from. "C'mon, Mikey," he said. "It's _me_. What can't you tell me?"  
   
Mikey knows that if he really doesn't want to talk then Frank isn't going to make him. But he sort of _does_ want to tell someone, so he relents; after all, it's _Frank_. "It's Gerard," says Mikey unhappily. "He's locked himself in his basement again. I mean, he's done it before, but – never for this long. It's been, like, three days. I don't think he's even eating."  
   
Frank drops to his knees in front of Mikey, eyes dark with a concern that makes Mikey feel just a bit warmer. "That's not it," he says, his eyes searching Mikey's face and one hand reaching out to push through Mikey's hair. Mikey leans into the touch, just slightly. He understands, of course, and he doesn't resent it, but no one's had much time for him over the last few days. That's the thing about Frank – he _always_ has time.  
   
"There's something else," murmurs Frank, staring into Mikey's eyes like he's looking for the answer there. "I _know_ you. Seriously. What is it?"  
   
Mikey hesitates, rubbing his hands together to warm them up and watching his breath dissipate into the air. On one hand, it's _Frank_ , but the thought of telling someone else about the ugly heart of it – the empty bottles their mom had found stashed in Gerard's closet, the pills that Mikey knew were disappearing from the bathroom cupboard – makes his stomach twist queasily. He feels like he's been pitched head-first into a dark, scary adult world that's dangerous and horribly powerful and all the worse because it's _real._  
   
But it isn't _his_ secret to tell, that's the thing. It's tearing Gerard apart as it is, the raw shame of it; it just wouldn't be right.  
   
Then, Mikey thinks – it's Frank. He knows all Mikey's secrets, some of which Mikey's never even told _Gerard_ , and Frank's never told a soul. Frank can be trusted.  
   
Mikey tells him.  
   
When he's finished, Frank wraps a warm arm around Mikey's thin shoulders and just sits there, letting Mikey lean against him and unusually not saying a word. Mikey's grateful for that, the way Frank always seems to just _know_ how to make him feel better. Just having him _there_ makes it easier to deal with, reminds him that it isn't the end of the world, that Gee can be fixed. That people have survived worse. He looks up at the pattern of the leafless branches, cut out of the inky sky, and Frank gives his shoulders a squeeze.  
   
"Hey. Are you alright?" he asks. He's worried, Mikey knows. About _him_. He's so used to being the brother that doesn't cause anyone any trouble, the one who can be counted on to be fine when everything else is falling apart. It's... odd, having someone who only cares about _him_ , but not unpleasant. He feels warmer again, and nods.  
   
"Hey," says Frank, his mouth curling up just a bit, nudging against Mikey. "You wanna climb the tree?"  
   
Mikey can't think of anything he wants more. It's _perfect_ ; an escape back into days when nothing mattered, when everything really _was_ fine.  
   
What he says is, "You don't think that's... sort of lame?"  
   
Frank looks so hurt that Mikey instantly regrets saying it in the first place. Frank was trying to help; what kind of asshole _is_ he? "Lame?" Frank repeats. "How is it lame? Mikey, it's _me_ , it doesn't _matter_ what the kids at school say–"  
   
"I know. I know, I'm sorry, I just..." Mikey shakes his head, embarrassed. "I'm just, sort of – you know. With – everything."  
   
"No worries," says Frank easily, his face clearing, already standing up and testing a low-hanging branch against his weight. They've been doing this since forever, but as they've grown the definition of 'safe' as it applies to branches has shifted. "'M not mad, Mikeyway."  
   
"I know," says Mikey softly. Frank never is.  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _October, 1992_**

  
"Didn't think you were coming." Frank's smile is broad and relieved, but there's something... off, somehow, lurking just below the surface. Mikey ignores it; this isn't the time.  
   
"Of course I was coming," says Mikey, slightly hurt that Frank has such a low opinion of him, after all this time.  
   
"Actually," says Frank, looking strange and sad. "There was something I wanted to talk to you about."  
   
Mikey frowns. "Can it wait? Just for a bit, I promise. I've kind of got a... surprise. Look," he says, "Come with me."  
   
In a strange inversion of the normal way of things, Mikey takes Frank's hand and leads him down towards the pond. He shakes out the blanket and lays it out on the ground, then sits down. Frank follows suit, head tilted curiously to one side. There aren't fireflies that night, which is a shame, but can't be helped, Mikey thinks. The moon is high and full, casting everything in an otherworldly glow and creating incandescent highlights and bottomless shadows.  
   
"Come _on_ ," whines Frank, bouncing impatiently on the blanket. "You said you had a _surprise_ for me. You can't leave me all blue-balled like that, man, it's just not cool."  
   
"Impatient much?" says Mikey, smirking. He pulls his hoodie tighter around him and shivers a little bit. His stomach feels all twisted up and he wonders for what's probably the eight hundredth time that day whether this was a good idea after all. It's stupid, cheesy; if he aborts the whole thing now he'll at least get away with the minimum of humiliation. He quells the urge to push his glasses up his nose; he's noticed recently what a blatantly obvious nervous tic it is, and he's trying to train himself out of it.  
   
"You're gonna get ill again," says Frank reprovingly (and more than slightly hypocritically, Mikey thinks). Frank shifts a little closer to Mikey, apparently on the pretext of keeping him warm, and Mikey feels almost dizzy for a second or two. But then he pulls himself together, glancing at his watch. The display glows softly in the dark, an eerie greenish colour. _11:59:19_ , it reads.  
   
"Forty seconds," murmurs Mikey, and Frank begins to count down, but Mikey shook his head. "Close your eyes," he says.  
   
Frank frowns. "Why?"  
   
Mikey looks down, embarrassed. He _knew_ this was a bad idea; people like him just aren't cut out for this sort of thing, but it's really too late to back out now. The theatrics are Gerard's area, not his. "Just... do it, alright? For me?"  
   
Frank doesn't argue and Mikey feels another momentary flicker of light-headedness. He fumbles the lighter he'd stolen from Gerard and the slightly squashed cupcake out of his hoodie where he'd been hiding them and struggles for several seconds to get the damn thing to _light_. Gerard makes it look _much_ easier than it actually is.  
   
"...Three – two – one. Ok. You can look."  
   
Frank opens his eyes, his grin growing brighter and brighter as he drinks in the sight of Mikey kneeling on the blanket in that ridiculous oversized hoodie, clutching a cupcake (orange-frosted, with a little black bat in the middle), a single candle guttering on top of it.  
   
"Mikey," Frank begins, sounding sort of choked up. "Why–"  
   
"It's your birthday," says Mikey, his tentative smile already fading. "As of, like, five seconds ago, it's October thirty-first." He pauses. "I – um. Ugh, I'm sorry, this was stupid."  
   
He ducks his head, his cheeks burning. He looks like such an _idiot_ ; what was he thinking?  
   
"Hey." Frank bumps his shoulder against Mikey's. "Look at me?"  
   
Mikey does. He looks at the way the candlelight lights Frank up and makes him look like both something unearthly and extraordinary and just _himself_ – the proverbial boy next door – at once.  
   
"You _dork._ It's not stupid," Frank says, and his voice sounds odd and stretched, like he's fighting to hold it steady. "It's _perfect_. Really. Best birthday _ever_ , Mikey. Seriously."  
   
Frank leans forwards and blows the candle out. As Mikey watches the wisp of pale, blueish smoke curl up into the air, he feels like something else is catching light deep down inside him.  
   
   
   
"So," says Mikey, a while later, when they've split the cupcake messily and ended up lying side-to-side on the blanket and staring up at the stars, frosting-smeared and lazy. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"  
   
"Nothing," says Frank, with an odd little smile that goes to Mikey's head like the Halloween candy sugar rush. "It was nothing."  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _June, 1994_**

  
"Jesus, Mikeyway, what _happened?_ You look like you lost a fight with a fucking blender or something!"  
   
Mikey starts, spinning to see Frank's worried face bobbing along beside him, their footsteps already perfectly in time. Mikey shrugs noncommittally, and reaches up to prod carefully at the burgeoning bruise on his cheekbone. He bites his tongue and chokes back a little whimper; _ow_. That's going to be a nasty one, he thinks gloomily, the type of bruise that hurts like a bitch for weeks and cycles from thunderous, livid purple to sickly yellow-green as it heals.  
   
"Some of the football jocks. They were talking about Gerard," he adds defensively as Frank groans and flings his hands up in exasperation.  
   
"So you thought you could take them all like – like fucking wolverine or something?! Mikey, you know I'm all for standing up for what you believe in or what-the-fuck-ever, but _you?_ On your _own?_ There's a line between brave and, and _suicidal_ , seriously!"  
   
Mikey scowls down at the sidewalk. "You can talk," he mutters resentfully. "You get injured on, like, a weekly basis. And I didn't – not wolverine, jeez. I told them to shut up, I didn't just go in there and start throwing punches."  
   
"That's _different_ ," snaps Frank, completely ignoring the latter part of Mikey's speech. "Inanimate objects don't _actively_ beat you up, man."  
   
Mikey doesn't say anything, just stuffs his hands into his pockets and doesn't look at Frank. His face and his ribs and his – well, his _everything_ hurts, and he's going to be as childish as he damn well wants to. Frank is his friend, not his _mom._ Between his parents and Gerard, he gets more than enough of this as it is; it stings to get it from Frank too. This is so _unfair_.  
   
Frank sighs. "Sorry," he says, after a minute or two of Mikey looking fixedly down at his feet and walking as fast as he could, taking long strides and ignoring the faint burn in his chest. "Mikey, c'mon, that was a dickish thing to say and I'm sorry. I just – I'm not around to have your back at school, you know? I – I get _worried_. I would have done exactly the same thing if I heard someone talking shit about _you_ ," he says fiercely, and somehow that makes it all ok again.  
   
"S'cool," Mikey sighs, wincing at the nasal edge on his voice and the sharp thrum of pain emanating from where his glasses rest on the swollen bridge of his nose. He really, _really_ hopes it isn't broken, because that's going to be really fucking difficult to pass off as _oh, I walked into a door_ or something. "You coming in?" he asks, as they reach the Way house, the brief argument already forgotten. Frank shakes his head and Mikey's stomach drops fractionally with disappointment.  
   
"Nah," he says, with a little wry smile. "You know what'll happen, I'll end up staying all night. You need to, like, rest up and shit. See you tomorrow, Mikey. Just – get better, alright?"  
   
Frank wraps him in a careful hug that manages to be warm and reassuring without triggering another round of agonising pain, and Mikey suddenly wants to just stand there all night with Frank's face pressed into the curve of his neck and Frank's arms gently around his bruised ribs. But Frank lets go after a minute or two, and wanders off up the street with another soft smile and an easy wave over his shoulder at Mikey.  
   
Mikey can _never_ stay annoyed at Frank. Not everyone has friends like Frank, Mikey knows, and that thought hangs suspended in his head, warm and luminous.  
   
   
   
"Who was that?" asks Gerard half an hour later, when his path crosses Mikey's in the kitchen.  
   
Mikey's washed the streaks of dry, crusted blood off in the sink under the cracked bathroom mirror and exhausted nearly a whole tube of arnica on the new bruises mottling his skin. His nose hurts less and looks a bit less swollen, which he hopes means it isn't broken after all, and the black eye hasn't started to show yet. In new jeans and a clean sweater, no one would know unless they were looking _really_ carefully, and Mikey intends to keep it that way. He isn't stupid _or_ suicidal, no matter what Frank thinks, and he forms the vague intention to tell someone if it gets worse. But Gee will blame himself, of course; Gee and his fucking guilt complex. He could convince himself that a meteor strike was his fault, given enough time. Mikey won't – _can't_ be responsible for fucking Gee up, not when his sobriety is still so newborn and fragile, so tenuous and spindly-limbed.  
   
Mikey frowns at the woefully inadequate contents of the refrigerator, and pushes his glasses carefully up his nose. "Who was who?"  
   
Gerard elbows him in the ribs and Mikey bites down hard on his lip, his eyes watering; fucking _ow_. "Jeez, Mikes, I'm not gonna go all medieval on his ass if you're dating someone. Just – I was in the attic, looking for that creepy-ass doll – the little china one with the missing eye? I wanted to paint it, I don't think mom threw it out – anyway, I just looked out the window and there you were. So," he says, sitting down at the table with that guileless, wide-eyed look on his face. "Who's your friend?"  
   
Mikey knows exactly who he means, and bile rises in his throat at the thought, sour and acidic.  
   
The strength and the violence of the sudden, unexpected surge of feeling catches him almost knocks him off his feet. The words are clear and sharp in his head, springing from nowhere – _no. He's not for you_. Something jealous and spiteful roars into life in his gut and he fights briefly with the all-engulfing urge to say _better go and sleep it off, Gee,_ or _you said you were finished with the pills,_ or _don't worry, I won't tell mom you've been drinking again_. He wants to – wants to break things and hurt _anyone_ who so much as looks at Frank. His blood is howling in his ears and he resists, just about, but it's a near miss.  
   
"No one," he says instead, flat and discouraging and struggling to keep his breathing under control. "No one. A friend. That's all."  
   
Gerard looks confused, his eyes big, dark pools of hurt, and then it's all over as suddenly as it had started. Mikey thinks he's going to throw up. What the _fuck_ just happened there? Until just now, he hadn't even known he _had_ a possessive streak, but the thought of Gerard being interested in Frank, knowing him, _liking_ him – it had brought it out to play. Those things he'd wanted to say – he doesn't know where they'd come from, can't imagine himself ever saying _any_ of them now, but, oh god, how he'd _wanted_ to. He can see Gee's face crumpling miserably as his own little brother lashes out at him, Jesus _Christ_ –  
   
Mikey leaves the room as calmly as he can and then breaks into a sprint on the stairs, his lungs fluttering and cramping, and spends the next four hours lying on his bed with his hands white-knuckled on his inhaler, gasping for air and wondering if he's going crazy.  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _May, 1995_**

   
"It'll be _fine_ ," insists Frank for the fourth or fifth time. He even stops flicking stones into the pond to look Mikey in the eye, sincere and reassuring. "They're not going to send the FBI after you because you skipped _one class_ , seriously. You're assuming they even _give_ a shit."  
   
Mikey makes a small, unhappy noise and unconsciously begins to shred a fallen leaf between his fingers. He _wants_ to believe Frank. It had just been – he'd had a minor panic attack in the toilets at lunchtime and he'd been so _tired_ and he'd just somehow... skipped. It hadn't been a conscious decision; he'd only realised after about half an hour that it was well and truly too late to go to math now. He doesn't _mind_ math, per se, but then again, that's basically representative of his attitude to school in general. It's just something that _is_ , whether he likes it or not, something for which he can't seem to drag up any particularly strong opinion either way.  
   
But he can't help it; he's anxious by nature and he's _sure_ there are kids who've been kicked out of Queen of Peace for ditching. And while _he_ isn't particularly worried about that, his parents would be furious and he doesn't really want to give them any more trouble to handle than they already have.  
   
"They're not going to expel you for missing one fucking math class, either," says Frank, rolling his eyes and doing that disconcerting mind-reading thing again. Mikey's mouth twists slightly. He really hates that, sometimes.  
   
"Really," Frank continues. "Like, if you only bothered showing up once a week? Maybe _then_. But you're, like, a fucking model student or something. You're so..."  
   
Mikey waits for the end of that sentence, but it doesn't come. He lifts his head, wincing as his neck protests and pushing himself up onto his elbow on the dusty picnic blanket. Frank is sitting up straight, one hand shielding his eyes from slanting the afternoon sun and peering intently in the direction of the house.  
   
"What?" he says, still preoccupied with getting kicked out of school or whatever. Frank isn't usually the type to space out like that, and for him to just _stop talking_ midsentence is even rarer. Frank is pale in the twilight, painted in dusky blues and indigoes, almost part of the sky itself. Mikey nudges Frank's leg none-too-gently with his foot. "Hey. I'm so _what?_ "  
   
Frank doesn't answer.  
   
"Who's _that?_ " he asks instead. Mikey follows his intent, hungry stare, just about managing to pick out a dark figure against the blinding sun, and his stomach drops.  
   
"Oh," he says. "My brother."  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _February, 1996_**

  
By now, Mikey is used to keeping Frank and Gerard separate. Not consciously – it isn't something he really thinks about, as such, but it's always _there_ , just under the surface. A constant, low-level buzz, like the shitty TV in the basement that Gerard never seems to turn off; comforting white noise.  
   
Maybe that's what had changed things. More than ever, Mikey feels like he was just a half-beat out of time with the rest of the world. It isn't much, just a tiny, almost imperceptible shift of _something._ He's still willing to believe that it's all in head, that neither Frank nor Gerard have noticed a thing, that he's made it all up.  
   
It's almost nothing; barely anything at all. So Frank sits next to Mikey – a few short inches along the same tree branch, their feet dangling in the chilly air and their cheeks stinging and pink from the cold – and waits for Mikey to talk. Heknows something is wrong, like he always does, and the pull in Mikey's chest is sweet and heartrending.  
   
Mikey licks his chapped lips and swallows around the lump in his throat.  
   
"Gerard," he says dully. "Relapse."  
   
He can barely get even those two words out, as horrifically inadequate as they are. They're almost clinical, a world away from what it had really been – one slip, a carelessly hidden bottle, and then a screaming, bloody-throated fight that had ended with tears and broken glass and Gerard more or less under house arrest. Mikey hadn't been able to stay in that house for another second; the anger and disappointment and resentment hung thick and suffocating in the air, corroding him from the outside in. He hadn't even bothered with gloves or a scarf on his way out, which he is now bitterly regretting. The cold isn't numbing him, it's only making it worse. He imagines it searing the images into his head for all eternity – Gerard's face, puffy and tearstained and glassy-eyed, swaying a little on the spot and hating himself more with every second, their mom looking like her heart was breaking and their dad looking helpless in that way that adults just _aren't supposed to_.  
   
Frank swears, guttural and angry, his hands shaking as he lights a cigarette. " _Fuck_."  
   
Mikey swallows again, the backs of his eyes prickling. He's been focussing single-mindedly on keeping it together until now, but it's _Frank_ ,and he's suddenly _this close_ to going to pieces completely. "Yeah."  
   
They sat in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. Frank shakes his head slowly. "Why does he do it?" he says.  
   
Mikey makes an inarticulate, frustrated noise. "I don't _know_ ," he snaps, louder and harsher than he'd intended. "It's like – it's like he thinks he _needs_ to. He doesn't... he doesn't _see_." He's finding it difficult to pull the right words out and string them together. What he wants to say was that he hates how fucking oblivious Gerard is, to the way he's nine different kinds of incredible, the way Mikey has never wanted to be anything but just like him, the way their parents fucking _adore_ him even after everything. And he's throwing it all away like it – like _he_ – isn't worth a fucking thing.  
   
Frank nods understandingly; Mikey doesn't have to have said it out loud for Frank to _get_ it. Frank pulls him closer and wraps his arms around him like he believes that alone can hold Mikey together, and hooks his ankle around Mikey's to make sure he didn't fall out of the tree. Like he's so sure, like he believes so much it'll make it real. Ironic, Mikey thinks distantly.  
   
If Frank feels Mikey shaking with sobs and a faint dampness where Mikey's face is pressed against his shoulder, he doesn't say anything.  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _August, 1996_**

   
Frank stretches, his t-shirt riding up and exposing a narrow strip of his stomach and the angles of his hipbones. Mikey frowns slightly as something prickles uneasily in the back of his mind. Frank drops down onto the grass, making a little happy noise in the back of his throat that does nothing to soothe Mikey's disquiet. Frank looks different, somehow, this summer, all new lines and planes; sharper and better-defined than before. Stronger. Cheekbones and jawline and calves, forearms and collarbones and shoulders.  
   
"Again?" Mikey asks, just for something to say, as Frank opens _The Catcher in the Rye_ at page one. He's read it almost as many times as Mikey's read _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , which really is saying something.  
   
"Shut up," says Frank, mock-affronted. "It's a fucking classic, Mikeyway."  
   
"Yeah, but you spend nearly as much time with Holden Caulfield as you do with me. There something you're not telling me, dude?"  
   
Frank sticks his tongue out at Mikey, effectively ending the argument, and drops his eyes studiously to the page. And – there it is, that blurred restlessness solidifying into something tangible. There's something about the feel of the sun on his skin and the soft drag of Frank's breathing, just audible over the breeze, and then it's just _there._ Mikey's eyes trace the curve of Frank's spine and the set of his mouth and the curl of his fingers, and he just – wonders. Just a little. Wonders what Frank's smile tastes like, wonders what Frank would feel like pressed flush against him, whether just that little shift of intent would make it different to all the times before.  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _January, 1997_**

  
Frank is sitting cross-legged on Mikey's bedroom floor, his back pressed up against the ancient radiator while Mikey sits opposite him with his head on the edge of his bed. Frank is mid-way through an impassioned diatribe about why girlfriends are _totally_ overrated – Mikey might possibly have been slightly more spacey and monosyllabic than usual, and when he'd made the mistake of mentioning this one girl in his homeroom Frank had misinterpreted it and he'd been off.  
   
Mikey's been doing some thinking lately, and he suspects that Frank is wasting his time trying to warn him off girls in a more-than-friends capacity. But, for some reason, he can't quite find the right words to bring it up – the fact that Frank's sharp angles and strong lines do more to make him hot and flustered than, say, Marilyn Monroe's curves ever did. So he doesn't say it, just sits back and lets Frank's voice wash over him.  
   
"Number eight," announces Frank, making grandiose hand gestures to illustrate the magnitude of his point. "Financial considerations. Dude, you know what would happen?"  
   
Mikey feels the corner of his mouth twitch a little. The rhythm and cadence of Frank's voice is familiar and comforting and Mikey feels like if he keeps listening he could disappear into it completely. He plays along. "What?"  
   
"She'd have expected you to take her out to the movies or, like, out to dinner or something. And you know who pays for that?"  
   
"I do?"  
   
" _Exactly_. If you're just friends then it's ok to split it, and everyone's cool, right? But if you're _dating?_ Think about it. Popcorn is fucking expensive, man. So either you look like you're cheap and she gets all offended, or you're broke, and then when you broke up you'd either be broke, miserable or both. This way, you don't have to be broke _or_ miserable. _Logic_ , Mikeyway," he finishes emphatically. "So. Number nine–"  
   
"Mikey? I'm – oh." Gerard was talking before he opens the door, and he stands there with an odd look on his face that even Mikey can't quite read. "Hey," he says to Frank. "I'm Gerard."  
   
Mikey feels something sick and icy freeze him solid, his lungs tightening; Frank and Gerard _in the same room_. It's wrong, horribly wrong, two worlds colliding; it shouldn't even be _possible_ –  
   
But apparently it is. Frank's up off the floor before Mikey can even open his mouth. "I'm Frank," he beams, bouncing up and down a little on the balls of his feet. "You're Mikey's brother, right?"  
   
"That's me," Gerard agrees, looking mildly amused and pushing a hand through the greasy hair hanging over his face. Mikey looks at him as if he'd just sprouted an extra head – Gerard is _never_ like this with people he doesn't know. Usually, he can barely stumble through a stilted sentence or two, the bare minimum of pleasantries, before bolting back to his basement. Mikey can feel a full-scale panic attack coming on; this _shouldn't be happening_.  
   
"Oh, dude. Awesome. Seriously, Mikey's totally told me _all_ about you." Frank's eyes are huge and starry and adoring like Gerard is _his_ big brother, and Mikey really is about to throw up or implode or just _something_.  
   
Gerard laughs, big and loud and completely unselfconscious. A strange pang goes through Mikey, cutting through the blinding horror. It's been months since _he'd_ made Gerard laugh like that. "Well," Gerard says, smiling that smile that shows all of his small, uneven teeth. "I'm gonna kick his ass later, because he's told me exactly nothing about you."  
   
Frank's laughing like this is the funniest thing he's ever heard, but all Mikey can hear was a dull roaring in his ears. _I'm going to wake up_ , he tells himself desperately, _any second now, and this will all be gone_. It feels like pressure building in his ears, ready to blow.  
   
"Anyway," Gerard continues, still blissfully unaware that anything's wrong. "Mom and dad aren't gonna be back until late. I was gonna order takeout. You guys want anything?"  
   
Mikey shakes his head, not trusting his voice, trying frantically to just _breathe_.  
   
"Oh. Ok." Gerard hesitates for a second, like he's waiting for Mikey to invite him in, but Mikey's brain is still shock-addled and after a brief moment of awkward, heavy silence, Gerard leaves again. Mikey lets out a long, slow breath, his heart still hammering. He slumps down, drained. That had been had been – surreal, awful, some kind of horrible fever dream. Now Gerard's gone, some of the tension knotted in his chest has started to untangle, and the screaming sense of _wrongness_ has begun to fade to a muted throb at the base of his skull.  
   
Frank starts talking again, but Mikey isn't listening. He counts his breaths, imagining the air spilling into his lungs and flooding into his brain; _in-two-three, out-two-three._ It helps; it always does, and the horrible feeling of being trapped between two jarring universes dies away so fast that it begins to seem detached, like something that happened years ago or maybe to someone else. In fact, he's starting to wonder if he hadn't just imagined the whole thing. It wouldn't be the first time he's blown something so far out of proportion that it's almost driven him insane.  
   
"Mikey?"  
   
"Mm?"  
   
"Are you ok? You went all... weird. You were doing that staring thing."  
   
"Fine," says Mikey, wondering whether saying it with enough conviction will make it true. "I'm fine."  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _July, 1997_**

  
Everything is soft and bright around the edges, and a tiny part of Mikey is beginning to understand why Gerard does this to escape. He doesn't intend to make a habit of it or anything, he'd just been – curious, and Frank has never been anything but a willing partner in crime, which was how Mikey had ended up sprawled out under the tree with Frank's head pretty much in his lap. He feels warm and loose-limbed, like nothing can ever hurt him again.  
   
Frank makes grabby hands at the bottle, but Mikey shakes his head mournfully. "'S empty," he says. Frank looks sort of sad, and Mikey feels it like a physical tug in the pit of his stomach.  
   
"Oh," he says, then wriggles round so he's looking up at Mikey. His smile is slow and sloppy, and the half-light makes him look so achingly beautiful Mikey can hardly stand it.  
   
Mikey _aches_ with the strain of not leaning down to kiss him. He doesn't know what gave him away, but Frank goes very still and says, "You can, you know."  
   
Mikey imagines a long, ragged rip running right down the middle of his body. He swallows, fighting _everything_ at once, _I should_ and _I want to_ clashing discordantly. "I can't," he says miserably. "You know why."  
   
Frank lets out a little sigh – frustrated? resigned? – and says, softly, "I know."  
   
   
   
   
   


\+ + +  
 ** _August, 1997_**

   
"Here." Mikey hands Frank a towel. Frank beams at him, and wraps it around his shoulders. His hair is dripping into his eyes, and when Mikey looks at him something tugs a little in the pit of his stomach. Mr and Mrs Way are at Mr and Mrs Toro's dinner party, so Frank and Mikey sit at the kitchen table as they recover.  
   
"These are new," says Mikey after a long silence, tracing a finger over the new tattoos on Frank's fingers. The ink is vibrant and bold and beautiful and it suits Frank, and Mikey is so painfully, utterly in love.  
   
"Yeah, Halloween. Best day of the year, motherfucker." Frank waggles his eyebrows and then his fingers, making the letters dance, and Mikey watches, transfixed. He licks his lips, wincing as he tastes stagnant pond water on them. _Ugh_.  
   
"Hey, Mikes, have you seen my – ? Oh. Hey." Gerard stops in the doorway, fucking _smiling_ like seeing Frank again is the best thing that's ever fucking happened to him; the world lurches nauseatingly and Mikey feels sick. He's frozen, barely breathing. Heart or lungs; one of the two has failed him –  
   
Gerard leans against the counter, so perfectly at ease that Mikey could _scream._ "Hey again, Frank."  
   
Frank practically bounces out of his chair, grinning. "Hey."  
   
Gerard flinches back automatically from the dreaded water. Anyone would think he was going to melt, Wicked Witch of the West style, thinks Mikey, a little wildly.  
   
"Wait, wait," Gerard says, sidling backwards, his forehead scrunching up with confusion. "Why are you all... wet?"  
   
"Uh." Frank at least has the decency to look shamefaced. "There was, um, a bit of a... thing with the, um, pond..."  
   
Gerard laughs, the noise ringing horribly in Mikey's skull. He isn't even thinking, but some buried instinct takes over, telling him he has to get out, just _somewhere_ , before he explodes.He clears his throat. "Uh," he says, shakily, "I'm gonna go and put some dry stuff on, alright?"  
   
Neither of them even seem to notice.   
   
   
   
When Mikey's changed, calmed down a bit and got back down to the kitchen, there's an old receipt on the table. His head is suddenly full of sirens, warning bells, klaxons, and he has to stop for a second or two just to get his breathing under control before he picks it up. On the back is Gerard's chaotic scrawl in what Mikey suspects is eyeliner pencil. He squints at it, trying not to imagine that Gerard's handwriting is even worse than usual, trying not to imagine that it's because someone was shoving him and laughing, making _him_ laugh –  
   
No. This isn't helping. He takes a deep, steadying breath and makes himself read it. _What's taking you so long_ – _you straightening your bangs up there or something? In the basement w/ Frank, come and hang out. G xoxo_  
   
He's down the stairs before he can think, trying desperately to fight the rising tide of panic and feeling his breath quickening and his lungs tightening.  
   
He stops dead.  
   
It's like a kick in the stomach, a rising chant of _traitor, traitor, traitor_ pounding in his ears. It's Frank and Gerard – his _brother_ ,and _Frank_ – sitting on Gerard's bed with their heads bent together, close enough to touch, both wearing little secret smiles and talking in low, warm voices.  
   
"Frank?" says Mikey, hearing his own voice as if from underwater, distant and distorted. Wrong, wrong, this is all wrong, for so many different reasons. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"  
   
Frank's eyes flick between Gerard and Mikey, and where Mikey was expecting surprise or discomfort or maybe even guilt, all he sees is a flash of irritation. Gerard bites down on his lip, his eyebrows slanting together; at least _he_ looks uncomfortable.  
   
"Sure," says Frank, his voice carefully neutral. He gets up and follows Mikey back up the stairs. Mikey tows Frank up to his room and shuts the door behind him; he doesn't want Gerard overhearing this.  
   
"Frank," says Mikey, pressing his fingers into his temples and struggling a little to breathe through the suffocating, cottony feeling in his chest. "What are you _doing?_ Jesus, you _know_ why you can't..."  
   
Frank folds his arms and glares mutinously. "What did it _look_ like I was doing?"  
   
Mikey feels his hands curling into fists, nails cutting crescent moons into his palms; he's never hit anyone in his life but there's a first time for everything. This is so _wrong_ – Frank is _his_ , seeing him and Gerard like that had made Mikey sick to his stomach. "You're not even – " he chokes out, everything in him straining against saying it, like if he finally says it after all these years the world will end. Frank takes a step towards him.  
   
"Not even _what?_ " Frank's gone horribly, terrifyingly quiet. "Say it, Mikey."  
   
Something about that, about the sound of his name in Frank's mouth, cold and hard, feels like something _snapping_ and Mikey lets it push him over the edge.  
   
"You're not even fucking _real!_ "  
   
It's out before Mikey can think. But, again, Frank trips him up; Mikey was counting on seeing him hurt or just _something_ , but Frank laughs, brittle and nasty.  
   
"Not real? Does this feel like _not real_ to you?" His hands shoot out, fastening around Mikey's wrists and gripping so hard Mikey feels like his _bones_ are grinding together; _fuck_. "Not anymore. You _made_ me real, _Mikes_ ," Frank's eyes are blazing, his hands painfully tight on Mikey's wrists, and Mikey flinches at the nickname. "Yes, you _did_ , don't fucking look at me like that. You believed in me so fucking much it _made me real_. I'm a fucking _person_ now. Flesh and blood, just like you. Why shouldn't I do whatever the fuck I want? You can't, fucking – stopme talking to everyone except you, it isn't _fair._ I don't fucking disappear when you're not around anymore, you know."  
   
Mikey opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His head is spinning; he doesn't understand how it's all gone so horribly wrong so fast.  
   
"But, I – fuck, you can't be – god, Frank, I made you up when I was five years old because I didn't have any other fucking friends!"  
   
His voice has risen to a harsh, strained half-shout, and Frank snorts. "Yeah. And then you wouldn't fucking _let go_ when you were supposed to! If you'd just forgotten me when you hit eight or nine like a fucking _normal kid_ – " Mikey jerks as if Frank had slapped him " – then none of this would even be happening! You have _no right_ to blame _me_ for this, alright? _No. Right._ "  
   
He's breathing hard and Mikey realises Frank has pushed him up against the wall at some point without Mikey even noticing. Frank leans impossibly closer, pressing into Mikey's space, and, Christ, Mikey knows _exactly_ why he's finding it hard to breathe. Everything is spinning out of his hands; Frank's _cruel_ and it's a shock, Mikey is sure he didn't make him like this.  
   
"Jesus, Frank, I – you can't fucking make me – make me not _want_ to let go of you and then tell me that's what I was supposed to do!"  
   
Frank draws back a few inches like Mikey had shoved him away, frowning, and Mikey can just about see the Frank he knows again. "Did I do that?"  
   
Mikey nods, short and jerky, not trusting his voice. Frank _had_. Of _course_ this was going to happen. Frank is silent for a second or two. Mikey is coming apart; god, he loves Frank so fucking much; it's crushing him, pulling him apart.  
   
"Mikey, we don't have to – we can still, you know. Jesus, we can still be _friends_. It shouldn't – " He breaks off with a weird, strangled laugh. "It should be the other way round, shit."  
   
Frank's eyes are huge and unsure, like he _wants_ everything to be ok, and Mikey thinks his heart is breaking. He can see it as clearly as if it's all laid out in front of him – the thing he _should_ do (save himself the hurt, tell Frank it's never going to work) and the thing he _wants_ to do (tell Frank it can still be fine, hold onto him just a little longer). He isn't stupid. He _saw_ Frank and Gerard, felt the pull between them, saw the starry-eyed way Frank had looked at Gerard – the two of them are an inevitability; he knows what's going to happen a month's time from now. He knows it's going to fucking kill him, but he can't quite do it, could _never_ let go. He looks away.  
   
"Yeah," he says quietly, thinking of Frank grinning and whispering in Gerard's ear, Frank tangling his hands in Gerard's hair, Gerard smiling against Frank's mouth – and _knowing_ he won't survive it. "Yeah, sure we can."  


End file.
